Hold
by King Caspian the Seafarer
Summary: The night of Aslan's death, Edmund can't sleep. Is there anything that can save him from the darkness of that horrible night? Peter and Edmund brother fic.


**Disclaimer: I do not own The Chronicles of Narnia. **

**A/N: This fic is third in a 'series' of fics from Edmund's point of view. The first was 'Traitor and the King', then 'Edmund, King of Narnia', and now this one. You don't have to read the others first, but it kind of helps put things in perspective. **

**'Hold' takes place on the night when Aslan was killed. Again, it's from Edmund's POV, and part of the theme is due to the song 'Hold' by Superchic (a-mazing song!). **

**Please review.**

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_I need_

_I need a hand to hold_

_To hold me from the edge_

_The edge I'm sliding past _

_Hold onto me._

_-Superchic, Hold_

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**Hold**

Darkness. It was all around me—the same whether I opened my eyes or left them closed. It was stifling; smothering. I felt as if the darkness was closing in on me, ready to extinguish all light forever.

The worst of it was that there was darkness _inside_ of me as well.

I let out a rasping sigh and turned over on my bed. The sheets were soft—noticeably soft after being held captive and having to sleep on the hard ground with no bed at all. I pulled the covers up to my chin and stared in the general direction of the roof of the red and gold tent that lurked somewhere in the blackness.

"Edmund?"

Peter's voice startled me badly. I jumped nearly a foot, but relaxed after the initial shock. I had almost forgotten he was there. We hadn't spoken since lights-out an hour before, and I had simply assumed that he had dropped off to sleep.

"You're still awake?" I asked, turning to lie on my side so I could face the side of the tent his bed was on.

"Obviously. I wouldn't be talking to you if I was asleep."

His half-hearted attempt at a joke was pitiable. Neither of us laughed. There was silence for a moment, and then Peter spoke again.

"Ed, what do you suppose is going on?"

I frowned into the blackness, straining to catch any hint of what my brother was trying to say.

"What d' you mean?"

I heard him sigh and turn over, presumably to face me from his bed.

"There's something wrong. I know I'm not the only one who can tell—you and Lucy were both awfully quiet at supper tonight. Come to think of it, so was everyone else."

Peter hesitated, as if he was almost afraid to continue, but then kept on.

"There's something hanging over the camp. I think everyone's felt it. Even Aslan seemed downright gloomy all afternoon. The only logical line of thought is that it has something to do with the Witch's visit."

I rubbed my arms at the mention of her, a slight breath of cool air from outside the tent making my skin tingle with cold.

"I can't think of how the strange feeling and the Witch's visit are related. After all—she renounced her claim on…on…"

"On my blood," I finished for him, swallowing as my throat tightened.

Neither of us spoke for a very long moment.

"I wouldn't have let her take you, you know."

I flipped on my back and stared upward again. Even if I had wanted to reply, I wouldn't have known what to say.

"She would've had to kill me before I let you go again."

In my mind I heard the ringing of a sword being drawn and heard an echo of the words, "Try and take him, then."

"I know," I said, my voice strangely rough all of a sudden.

I heard a rustling of sheets, and then he was right there beside me. Even though I couldn't see him, I knew he was staring at me—waiting. After a dreadful moment of hesitation, I sat up and lunged forward, burying my face in his shoulder like I had so seldom times in the past. His arms closed around me in a strong, protective embrace—at last. My face felt strangely wet against his tunic, and I realized for the first time that it was streaked with tears.

"Oh Ed!" Peter said, his voice choked up so that I knew he must be struggling with tears as well. "I'm so sorry…for everything! I should never have let any of this happen. It's all my fault that you went to the Witch, isn't it? I've been rotten to you ever since Dad left—even though that's when we needed each other the most. And here—in Narnia, I mean—I wanted dozens of times to try and rescue you from her but they wouldn't let me."

I wanted to stop this horrendous flow of absurdity, but I seemed to be having trouble getting words past the lump in my throat.

"I…I couldn't sleep, you know," Peter continued hoarsely, "all those nights you were gone. I was so worried…terrified that you might not make it—all because of my own stupid—"

He stopped and hugged me more tightly.

"Oh, Ed…I thought I'd lost you!"

We clung to each other—two brothers who had been separated by too much for too long. In the darkness, it was as if only we two existed in the whole world. In the back of my mind, I thought how silly it was for Peter to be taking all the blame for what had happened. But that was just Peter. The eldest. The one who must be responsible for all the rest.

I couldn't just sit there and let him take all the blame, though, even if my throat wasn't working properly.

"It's my fault as much as yours, Pete," I told him quietly, my voice muffled in his tunic. "I was the one that made the decision to…to betray you and the girls."

His grip tightened slightly, and I knew—really for the first time—that he honestly didn't hold a grudge.

"And as for the Witch—well, I got exactly what I deserved. In fact," I added with a shudder, "I didn't even get that. For what I did, I deserved death."

"Thank Aslan we don't always get what we deserve," Peter replied fervently.

At the mention of the Lion, the strange feeling that had been hanging over the camp all day now resurfaced. Neither Peter or I spoke for another minute or so. At last, I drew back from his embrace and spoke.

"Something isn't right."

The darkness wasn't quite as impenetrable as before, and I could just make out the outline of Peter's head as he nodded.

"I know. If only I could figure out what it is."

Before he finished speaking, I sat bolt upright in my bed, chills running down my spine. Peter felt me stiffen. He grabbed my arm to reassure me of his presence, and said, "What's wrong, Edmund?"

"Didn't you hear it?"

I leaned toward the tent fold, and the noise came again. It was high and eerie and filled with undisguised malice and evil intent. It was the howl of a wolf. One of the Witch's wolves.

"I heard _that_ one," Peter whispered.

"Are they close, d' you think?"

"Maybe a mile, I guess. It's hard to tell."

I shuddered. I still hadn't forgotten the wicked teeth and sharp claws of Maugrim and his followers. A few seconds later, there came another howl, and then several eerie shrieks.

"It sounds like it's coming from the Stone Table," I murmured. "Oh…Oh Aslan…"

"Perhaps we should make certain the girls are all right," Peter suggested.

I shook my head.

"We don't want to wake them. It's no good getting them all worried."

Peter moved to the edge of the bed.

"Should we investigate?"

Another wolf howl split the outside silence in two, and I shuddered violently.

"No—don't. Whatever's going on out there, I think it's best to stay away."

"Why do you say that?"

"I…Aslan warned me. Before supper—after the Witch had left." I paused, wondering how much Peter already knew. "He told me not to leave the tent tonight."

There was a moment's silence while Peter pondered this answer.

"Did he tell you why?"

I shook my head, and then remembered that he couldn't see.

"No. He said to trust him. Not to leave the tent no matter what. I can't imagine why."

_I'm not certain I_ want _to imagine why._

We listened for a few more minutes. The noises eventually got louder and louder until I could hear them as plain as day. They were obviously creatures from the Witch's army—hags, werewolves and the like. But what they were doing at the Stone Table was more than I could guess. Unless…

"Peter," I said urgently, grabbing his arm. "Right before the Narnians rescued me, and the Witch was about to kill me, she mentioned something about the Stone Table and about it being put to its proper use. Could she have meant…"

"By Aslan," Peter whispered, catching his breath.

Neither of us spoke again after that. We sat and listened for a few more minutes. Each second crawled by with terrible slowness. The noises grew louder until they reached a new height of evil. I felt Peter shudder beside me, and knew that he, too, could feel the malevolence in the air. A horrible dread began creeping over me. In the darkness, I imagined the Witch, smiling coldly at me as she raised her knife—

"Peter—"

A horrible scream pierced the night, and I folded over in agony. I could _feel_ it—not actual pain, perhaps, but a terrible sense of something I could never find words vivid enough to describe. I felt it so strongly that it was like a dagger, driven directly into my heart.

"Edmund!" Peter was worried. "Ed? What's wrong?!"

I gasped for breath. The pain was so _heavy_. The darkness closed in around me, and I once more felt the presence of evil; strongly. The bile rose in my throat, and I threw my head into my pillow and screamed.

**He was gone.**

I don't know how I knew it, but the feeling of loss that hit me like a knife told me everything. Suddenly, I knew how He had felt, walking up the hill toward His doom. I knew what He had thought in those last seconds. And the thing that almost made it worse was that I knew His last thought had been for me.

"Peter," I gasped between the shudders and sobs that racked my body, "Peter—help!"

"What can I do, Ed? How can I help?"

The darkness was so _heavy_. I was alone in the dark. Alone, now that He was gone. And now there was nothing between me and her. Me and the Witch. The dark was stifling. It pressed in around me from all sides. It was death. But despair was the wound in my side, the one that kept me gasping for breath. The utter darkness of that despair was the most horrible thing I had ever experienced—or ever would experience. For despair is the mightiest of weapons, one that has conquered many an empire in one fell blow.

But as I plunged down into the darkness of the cliff that was despair, a hand appeared from out of nowhere and grabbed onto mine. I clasped it tightly, knowing that it was the only thing keeping me from falling to the darkness. The hand held just as tightly to me, and I knew that it would never, ever let me fall.

"It's all right, Ed. I've got you. You're safe. It's all right."

Peter's voice entered my ears once more. I could hear the worried tone in his voice, and wondered how long I had been in the darkness.

"He's gone, Peter," I sobbed, beginning to tremble without knowing why. "He's dead. She killed him, and He's gone."

Peter was silent, as if he either didn't know what I was talking about or didn't know what to say. Then he gave me a reassuring squeeze and tousled my hair tenderly.

"He's can't _really_ be gone. Surely not for good," he said gently.

Even in the lingering pain I felt, I drew back and stared at my brother in astonishment.

"But I felt it…the pain. He's dead, Peter. Aslan is dead."

"_Dead_?!"

"He died in my place. I was the traitor, but He…He…"

I felt the hand tighten on mine, and buried my face in Peter's shoulder again. I heard him sniff once, and knew that he, too, was trying not to cry.

"Do you remember when Dad would read to us from the Bible?" he asked after a moment, his voice low and hoarse.

I nodded as a flood of memories washed over me. Memories of the good old days, when Dad was home. The smell of his pipe, the warm glow of the fire, the sound of his low, soothing voice filled my ears for a long, wonderful moment.

"He used to say," Peter continued, swallowing, "that 'greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friend.'"

I could hear the words, plain as day. But strangely, they were spoken by the strong, rich voice of Aslan—not by my father. I felt the hand tighten on mine again, and I smiled through my tears.

"Do you…do you think He loved me?"

Peter hesitated for a moment, fumbling for an answer, I suppose, and then squeezed me tightly in a hug.

"Oh, Ed. How could he not?"

We remained like that for a long moment. The darkness scuttled back into its corner as I remembered the Lion's roar, and knew that His sacrifice had been made willingly for me. A gift. A gift of Love.

Peter released me from his hug. His face was streaky, but free of tears. He tousled my hair again with an affectionate, older-brother smile, and then stood.

"We'd best get some rest. There'll be a battle tomorrow, and we'll need to be ready. Especially if Aslan isn't here."

I nodded, and he watched me for a moment, as if to make certain I was all right, before returning to his bed.

As the shadows drifted across the roof of the tent, I snuggled deep into my covers, my mind still aching with grief for the loss of the Lion, but joyful at the thought that He loved me. And I knew, somehow, that everything would be all right with Aslan. I just knew.

"Thanks, Pete," I said suddenly.

My brother rolled to face me in his bed and gave me a quizzical look.

"For what?"

"For being there," I replied, half-grinning at his ignorance of how much it had helped. "For grabbing onto my hand and keeping me from falling."

Peter stared at me for a few moments, and then shook his head with a smile.

"I'll always be there for you, Ed. But…"

He hesitated, as if unsure whether he should continue or no. I raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged.

"What did you say about grabbing your hand?"

"You know," I replied, flopping on my back and staring up again at the shadows. "When the darkness attacked me. When I felt the pain. I felt your hand grab mine and hold me from the edge."

"I didn't touch your hand," Peter replied with a yawn. "Must've been your imagination."

He may have been falling asleep, but this sleepy statement woke me up better than a bucket-full of icy water. I sat bolt upright in my bed, beginning to tremble all over again, for I had felt the hand just as clearly as I had felt the pain, and I was sure that it had been Peter's hand.

"What did you say?"

"Not my hand. G'night, Ed. Wake me up if you need me."

I stared across at him, completely confused. Not Peter's hand? Than whose was it? I looked down at my palm, and flexed it experimentally. Nothing wrong with it. But then as I closed my eyes, and saw, in my mind's eye, the great golden face of the One who loved me enough to die for me, I suddenly knew whose hand had held me from the edge.

I slept, and the Light of the Lion inside me kept the darkness at bay for the whole night long.

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"_If I make my bed in the depths …even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast." Psalm 139: 8-9_

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_finis_


End file.
